Chemistry
by cruciyo
Summary: Dr Watson is a quiet and reserved biology teacher at Gregson Academy, infamous for his past war experience. When Mr Holmes is hired to teach chemistry, Watson is inspired to revert back to his adventurous lifestyle, with the help of his new colleague.
1. Another year

It was September 6th, 2008, and the first day of term was drawing to a close at Gregson Academy. Students were filing through the corridors heading to the last twenty minutes of day one; form time.

Dr Watson was in Lab 4, waiting patiently for the same twenty people, who he'd had now for four years , to come bursting in through the door and enthuse about their summer vacation. It was a ridiculous timetable, for form to be placed at the end of the day. A few of Dr Watson's lot never actually turned up, and just went straight home, using 'it's a waste of time' as their reasoning.

Cindy Hussain was the first to enter, greeting him with the enthusiasm of a worm.

"Chin up, Cindy," Watson smiled, though he was sympathetic. He had endured three hours of angst-filled year nines who refused to comprehend the difference between a plant cell and an animal cell, and two hours of intense anatomy with his GCSE class. It was a hard slog for the first day back.

"You almost killed us with that lesson on kidneys, sir." Cindy grumbled. She was one of the eight students in the form who were taught by Dr Watson, all of whom viewed him as a highly competent teacher.

"Rubbish. You'll get it, give it time."

"It's the first day back though! You threw us into _that_?"

"It's your last year, get over it." Sir winked. She rolled her eyes and sat down on the middle left desk, just as six more students rolled in, all greeting Watson with equal amounts of enthusiasm as Cindy had declared.

"Miserable lot," John grumbled at the gloomy faces of the 15 year olds in the room. "You've only got one year stuck with me left. Do any of you know if Kevin's still going to keep up with his act of not showing up?"

"He might pop in this one form to let you know he's still alive," Mike replied as he set himself next to the tray of Bunsen burners. "But I wouldn't bet on him turning up for the rest of the year."

"Charming," Dr Watson muttered as seven more people filed into the room, the door thudding shut behind him. After a few minutes, the corridors died down, and Watson quickly counted the number of students in the lab. "Fourteen. That's six either late or skiving. You were wrong, Stamford; Kev's not bothered declaring himself. Nice to show how highly you think of people though!"

"He doesn't think highly of _everyone_," A spotty kid named Philip snickered. Mike turned around and whacked him on the shoulder. Their form tutor was ruffling through paper and barely listening.

"Why, who doesn't he think highly of?" He muttered, not very interested in the answer.

"That new chemistry teacher. He kicked off at him today sir, it was hilarious."

"Which new chemistry teacher?" This caught John's attention; Mike was usually a nice, relaxed teenager, who got on well with everyone. There were three new members in the science department this term and from the top of his head, he couldn't remember who had replaced Mike's. What that new teacher had done to frustrate Mike, he couldn't fathom.

"That tall dickhead." Philip grinned.

"Watch your mouth, and 'tall' doesn't narrow it down, funnily enough." Although he'd never admit it, with his height, the majority of the science department were taller than poor John.

"Cause you're tiny," Molly interjected.

"Shut up, I'm taller than half of you. Which teacher?"

"Mr Holmes." Mike muttered. "He's smart, very smart, I'll grant. But awful."

"So he's clever but a crap teacher?" He frowned. John wasn't head of department so he hadn't been involved with hiring, but from what he had heard, Mr Holmes had seemed like the best man for the job.

"Oh, no he's a good teacher. Explains things very well. He's just very… subtle."

"What do you mean? I've yet to meet him."

"Like… he thinks he's better than everyone. He's a complete prat. He just slips in insults as if we're all beneath him, and he's some super hero." Philip vented, cutting across Mike before he could explain. "Mike didn't get equilibrium, but before Mr Holmes explained it, he sighed and said 'what it must be like in your funny little minds'. And he kept muttering 'idiot' after every question!" Philip was getting really angry now. His long black hair was getting ruffled and his eyes were bulging with annoyance. "And then he started to pick at people! Like, if they weren't listening, he'd point out personal things! The man is a psycho, he seemed to know that Tessa had spent the entire lesson texting her ex-boyfriend, arguing with him about their broke up two nights ago, because her nail varnish was chipped!"

"Alright Phil, calm down. He just seems uncomfortable to me. Probably nerves." Rule one of being a teacher- never agree with a student about another teacher's flaws.

"No, sir." Mike started. "I'm not good at chemistry. I know it. I asked a lot of questions, and he was so… patronising with the answers. He then suggested that my lack of understanding was due to my limited attention span, after finding out that a close friend had died. And he was right! How could he know that?"

"I'm so sorry, Mike." John frowned.

"It's alright. Maybe I am too distracted. Mum said I should have this week off… I need to keep acting like things are normal."

The room turned uncomfortably quiet.

"Long story short, Mr Holmes is a cock."

"Philip, being in your final year does not grant you permission to openly swear about other members of staff in front of me. This is your last warning." John said half-heartedly. To be frank, he didn't care. It was just rules. "At the end of form, I'll find him and talk to him. Is it Lab 6?"

The four students who had Mr Holmes in the room nodded.

"Good. I've needed an excuse to introduce myself to him anyway. Who had a good summer?"

The rest of form consisted of a glum Mike Stamford, a thrilling tale of how Ted had tried almost been arresting for accidentally 'breaking and entering' into a farmer's un-fenced field of cows, seven detailed tales of intense parties and a few dull announcements that John found incredibly boring to announce.

"Been up to much, sir?"

"Not really. You all have thrilling lives which I can't compete with. I won't bore you with my own."

"Meet someone?"

John glared darkly at Ted who was grinning.

"No, thanks for reminding me. I'm also thinking of moving house; I need a new place. The current one reminds me too much of the war." John shuddered. Philip muttered something to Mike, who supressed (badly, thought John) a guffaw. John stiffened. "Something funny about the war, Stamford?"

Mike's eyes widened.

"No! No, Phil was just laughing about you and Mr Holmes living together. Sir was going on and on about how exhausted he was from trying to find a new tenant, and that was his excuse for having no patience with us asking questions."

"Right," John nodded, relaxing.

The bell went.

"Hope you're all perkier tomorrow, you grumpy gits. Except you, Ted. Your farmer tale was the most exciting thing I've heard since I found out the dinner ladies had baked brownies for lunch."

"Oh, ha, ha." Ted grimaced. "See you,"

"Bye,"

The door closed softly behind him, and John realized how much he relied on those few teenagers for company. They had been his first form as they had joined when he did- all of them were therefore ill adjusted to the school. They all grew up in it at the same pace. John would miss them all incredibly.

He wasn't a boring man- not at all. He was a trained doctor and had fought in a _war_ for Christ's sake. He was just… lonely. Being shot had left him wounded mentally. No one quite understood his history, and he felt alone in the sense that he had seen a whole other world to everyone. He couldn't stay in touch with the other veterans- he wanted to put the war behind him. There was no one who could understand the thrill and torture of war other than ex-soldiers, but as he had ex-communicated them, who was there to talk to?

Sure, he had acquaintances. Sure, he could get along with people. But he was unattached. He didn't have anything to wake up for, except his work. With a crappy family, the only people he really cared about were the kids in his form, and they were all going to leave in less than a year. Never to see him again.

John wasn't very sentimental, but he knew he'd have difficulty adjusting to a new bunch of kids. He hated the year 7s.

And then there was Mr Holmes. John knew Mike- he had breezed through puberty, sailed through his hormones and was outburst free. Never had he heard anything negative from him about another person, so this Holmes teacher must have been really nasty. Suddenly filled with adrenaline and craving a good shouting match, John jumped to his feet, scooped up his keys and locked the door behind him.


	2. Mr Holmes

Rapping the lab door hard before thrusting it open, John burst in on the back of Mr Holmes' head, which was facing a set of test tubes.

"Urgency." The man said instantly. "You pushed through the door milliseconds after rapidly knocking. Either it is an emergency or you are experiencing some sort of intense need to be thorough. As you have not yet interrupted me to announce such emergency, I take the latter- have I done something wrong?"

"What?" John said blankly, taken aback by such a bizarre introduction.

"Ah, an unfamiliar voice." The man was still studying the test tubes, his back facing John. "You must be Mr Watson- the only science teacher I have yet to meet. But how do I know you're a member of the science department? Your abrupt entrance implies familiarity with the labs here, so you're not from another subject, and you can't be a member of higher power, like the headmaster for instance, as I have spoken to all of the higher staff and your voice is exceptionally differed to theirs. As you're familiar to the labs then, you must have worked here for a while, and must feel like you have higher authority than me."

"Doctor." Was all John replied.

"I'm sorry?"

"You said Mr Watson," John said plainly. "It's 'Dr' Watson."

The back of his head was covered in dark locks of thick hair, which stopped just above his suit's collar. Upon John's icy correction, Mr Holmes turned slowly around, revealing piercing eyes, a long face and striking cheekbones. At first his face was menacing- almost challenging, but it smoothed out into a warming smile as he extended his arm.

"Forgive me," He grasped John's hand and shook it before letting go. "_Doctor_ Watson. But you look very flustered. Is there an emergency? Was I wrong?" He looked a bit put out. John shook his head.

"No, it's just a long walk between the labs and a bad leg." John said, his voice bitter._ Flustered? Try coping with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp, _he thought angrily.

"I see. But it was abrupt. What's the matter?"

"Well, I hate to greet you on a bad note," John stepped out of the door way, letting the door shut behind him. The room was very quiet and the bubbles in the third test tube were very distracting. "And I hate to fall fatal to student gossip. But I have heard you've been giving the children a bit of a bad time."

"Who said that?" Mr Holmes said dryly, as uninterested in John as John was with the kids before when he ruffling through some papers. John concluded that he didn't like this teacher.

"Three members of your GCSE Chemistry class."

"Oh!" He looked up. "Yes, they're a distracted class. Of course it's obvious why, with one of them-"

"If you're going to tell me about Stamford's deceased friend, save your breath. That was tactless of you to just blurt it out- he's 15! How did you even know?"

"Deduction," Said Mr Holmes simply.

"Deduction? Right, okay," John said sarcastically. "Well, we are in a school filled with hormonal teenagers. What's their business is their business. Unless you deduce that one student is about to kill another, or rob a bank, or cheat a test, please keep all of your inferences to yourself. You aren't coming across as very popular."

"Am I not?" The man replied, unoffended and focused on his test tubes. "I thought my lesson was fairly interesting."

"Apparently you're quite insulting."

"I've been told that. That isn't news."

"Is this your first job as a teacher?"

"What do you think?"

John stared at the man, growing very agitated. This was a hard man to argue with and he needed a good shouting.

"I _deduce_," John hissed. "That this is your first job as a teacher. You don't know how to treat the students."

"Where's your evidence?" Mr Holmes encouraged, picking up a pipette and squeezing some lime liquid into it. John huffed.

"You kept calling them idiots. Mike doesn't make things up and he can take banter. You must have been harsh on him for him to be so insulted, but as he is a good guy, he tried to cover up his annoyance. It was Philip Anderson who told me the full story. Look, if a kid asks a question, it is not okay to respond with 'you have small brains' or 'you idiot', or whatever it is you said."

"Philip Anderson?"

"Yes!"

"Oh, he is _infuriating_. He thinks he's some sort of genius just because he understands basic molar chemistry."

"He's in my form and has top marks across the board," John retorted, unwilling to admit he thought Phil was a complete prat as well.

"Well, he's still got an ego the si-"

"Mr Holmes…"

"Call me Sherlock, please."

"Okay, Sherlock," John slowed down his tone to try and seem calm. "You're missing the point. I understand you're new here, so you might not appreciate that we teach _children_. Please don't call them idiots. They are here to learn. You are paid to help them learn. Don't bring up dead friends. Don't 'deduce' things they don't want deducing. Just please answer their questions with a smile and encouraging nod."

Sherlock put the pipette down and sighed.

"I'm not missing the point. I understand completely. I am an arsehole to everyone. It's how I work. Don't expect sentiment or kindness from me. But, if it makes people feel any better, I won't blurt out any deductions. But I can't stop from observing things. For example; Iraq or Afghanistan?"

It took a moment for John to process what Sherlock had just asked.

"Afghanistan, but how…"

"You see! My brain, it's on fire! I observe things basic humans can't even fathom. 'How did you know that, Sherlock? Did you research me?' Of course not, Dr Watson! Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. You say you have a bad leg and from when I have seen you in the corridors, you walk with a stick, but right now, you haven't got one, and you're standing up and talking to me as if you've forgotten about it. The adrenaline must have kicked in upon approaching to shout at me so you simply forgot about your 'injured' leg, therefore it must be a psychosomatic limp- commonly found in people with post-traumatic stress disorder. This supports the theory that you were in the military, as you must have gained the original injury in traumatic circumstances. So what was the wound? You were shot. Not in the leg, somewhere else- not fatal. There are no visible scars so they must be covered by your suit- arm? Shoulder? You're a doctor, you corrected me on that, so you have a great medical knowledge but chose to go to war and be an army doctor. Whilst there, you got shot in the arm; I'm assuming you were discharged from service rather than chose to quit. I'm right, aren't I? Of course I am. No man who trains to be a doctor, to then walk straight into the battlefield, quits at the first hurdle. So why, Dr Watson, are you cooped up in a high school teaching people about plants?"

The room was suddenly very tense and silent. Sherlock stared intently at John, like a hawk. The test tubes were all bubbling now.

"Correct." John coughed; his mouth had gone dry. "Christ, you're right- Jesus, how did you-"

"I saw. It's all there; things ordinary humans can't see. So, forgive me if I am ruder than average, but it doesn't take deductions to infer that I am not an 'average' person."


	3. Apologies

John's hatred for his flat was truly reflected by the terrible state it was constantly left in.

But who should he clean for? It was dingy, cramped and severely lacking in character. No one ever visited. He made sure that if he ever picked up a girl at a bar, they went back to her place. His antisocial family never bothered calling in on him. His pistol was his only company; it lay fully loaded in the draw next to his bed.

Usually, he came home, washed a single dish and opened a microwave meal from Tesco, eating it in front of the TV for an hour or two, getting frustrated at the crappy shows. He would then shower, mark some school books then retire for bed. But tonight, his head was wired.

How could someone be that smart? After Sherlock's interrogation, John had stared open mouthed at the man for a rather unflattering length of time, before swearing quite loudly and storming out. The man was impossible to compete with and there was a lot of unused adrenaline built up inside him, ready for use only to have been let down.

John threw his stick on his bed and sat down next to it, thinking. It had been a hard day and he didn't need his life story to have been told by an obnoxious arsehole. How had he managed to land himself a job at a _school_? John had never met someone quite so antisocial in his life.

However, a Chinese takeaway and a prolonged shower later, it dawned on Watson that he had actually been just as rude. That was the first time he had met Sherlock Holmes and he had been incredibly out of line, swearing at him and greeting him with student gossip. Guilt swarmed through John, replacing his frustration, and he vowed to apologise to Sherlock first thing in the morning.

But he wasn't there at 7:50am, the time when all teachers arrived to set up for the day. John waited for him to enter the staff room, but he didn't. He subtly walked passed Lab 6, only to find it empty. Five minutes before the day began he finally saw Mr Holmes sign in and retreat to his lab. It was too late for a lengthy apology and explanation now.

After two hours of year 8, John decided to find Sherlock at break time. But once again, he couldn't find him. He checked the man's timetable- he had a free period in between break and lunch, meaning he'd probably left the premises for the whole one hour forty five minutes. Mr Holmes was not getting his apology any time soon.

The longer Sherlock's absence, the more curious about him John was getting. Where was he going? Why was he so clever? What did he do?

Tuesday was a hard slog for Biology, just like Monday was. John could only be thankful that he only taught two lessons on Wednesdays, meaning he could catch up on the marking he had forgotten last night due to his frustration.

After an incredibly shy set of year 7s for the last lesson of the day, the bell went, signalling form time. This time 16 students rolled into his lab and all set down in the exact same places as yesterday, just with an added Penny and Lucy.

"Good to see you, girls." John smiled. "Where were you yesterday?"

"We forgot term started," They said. _Bollocks,_ John thought. The pair were notorious for skiving school, so they probably just couldn't be bothered turning up.

"Not good enough," The teacher said sternly, but cleared his expression before turning to Stamford. "Hey Mike, did you have chemistry again today?"

"Yeah," Mike said glumly. "He was still a bit insulting. But hey, once you get past that, I suppose he can be tolerable. He didn't do any more investigating into people's nail varnish or whatever, so I guess whatever you said last night must have woken him up."

"Well, that's good."

"Still rude." Phil said defiantly. "I want a new teacher."

"Well take it to the head teacher."

"He can't do that!" Tiffany, another student of Sherlock's, exclaimed.

"Why not? Mr Holmes is very assertive, I'm sure he'll listen."

"He can't just go up to him and be all like 'Hey, your brother is a prat, can I have a new teacher?'"

John frowned.

"They're related?"

"Mr Holmes and Mr Holmes? Great observational skills, sir." Philip huffed.

"There's a Mrs Watson in the art department, that doesn't make us related. Barely speak to her." John huffed. "And it would be unprofessional for him to be biased even if they _are_ related."

John got on very well with Mycroft Holmes, but he wasn't aware he had a brother. Although he doubted the theory very much, it made sense as to how Sherlock got the job. He decided that he'd pay Mycroft a visit before he went home.

When the bell went, signalling the end of day 2, John rushed over to Lab 6 to catch Sherlock before he disappeared again. Students were still filing out of the classroom as he got there; he waited patiently for them all to leave.

When he entered the lab, he found himself gazing once more at the black locks curled on Mr Holmes' head. This time, he was facing a laptop.

"Sherlock," John began, but was greeted with an index finger held up to silence him. John raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. He was her to reconcile.

"One moment, please," The taller of the two murmured distractedly, staring at the screen. Peaking over his shoulder, John saw a very lengthy email from a guy called 'Lestrade'. Suddenly, Sherlock slapped the laptop down and muttered "boring."

"What is?"

"A case. It had promise at lunch time. I've just received some information and now it's just obvious. I can think of dozens of more thrilling outcomes- I'm extremely disappointed."

"A case?"

"Yes, a case."

"Well, if the solution's obvious, shouldn't you reply?"

Sherlock laughed.

"No, I'll leave him to his own thoughts. He'll figure it out sooner or later. Can I help you?"

He seemed friendly enough. John shifted uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. He hated apologies.

"About last night," He began, scratching his hair. "I was really rude."

"Were you?"

"Well, yes. I should have introduced myself better, and I shouldn't have sworn at you."

"Oh. Well, now you know better." Sherlock simply said.

"Right, yeah," John said awkwardly. He didn't get this man. Sherlock didn't seem offended- he seemed quite comfortable with John actually, despite their conflict 24 hours ago. Maybe the man wasn't easily offended, and that was why he was quite openly rude to people. Perhaps he had social issues? Either way, John was curious about 'the case'.

"So, what's the case?" He asked, avoiding saying 'sorry'.

"Oh, it's boring. It doesn't matter. Waste of my lunch hour- I could have spent it marking."

"Is that where you were then?"

"Yes. Scotland Yard is about a ten minute cab away so…"

"You work for the police?" John gawked.

"No, of course not; when they're out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"So that email was from a police man."

"D.I Lestrade, yes."

"And you're hired _by _the police?"

"Quite right."

"But… police don't consult amateurs, right? You're just a teacher."

Sherlock frowned.

"Didn't my deductions last night prove I'm not just a teacher? I am not ordinary. I see things other people miss. For example, you live alone and are having serious money problems. You haven't got the spare money to get your hair professionally done so you cut it yourself. It is un-even at the back, implying there is no one living with you to let you know. It also means you aren't close enough with anyone to tell you that you need to redo it, like a family member. Therefore you must be quite distant with your family and won't turn to them for help- even with your money problems. You have enough money to buy a decent pair of shoes, which are evidently old but still in shape. So you are coping with minimal living conditions and budgets, and cutting out unnecessary luxuries like hair salons, to pay for necessary things like food, withstanding shoes and equipment for work. I'd say you're struggling to cope with paying rent and bills, and are quite lonely. All because the back of your hair is uneven. Don't you see? Little details like that are so easily missed, but please correct me if I'm wrong about any of it."

Once again, the man was totally correct. John rubbed his eyes and subconsciously felt the back of his hairline.

"What could possibly interest you in teaching chemistry when you're that smart?"

Sherlock smiled.

"You were right; the police don't consult _amateurs_."

There was a pause.

"Sorry."

"That's quite alright. And I wanted to teach because of the children. Children have a vaster imagination than adults. They see things from different perspectives. I prefer the younger classes- more imagination. They help me out by offering different theories. I had a full blown debate with my year 7 class about the case which I've just uncovered during my first period; it was very entertaining. I don't like ignoring children when they have theories; there are very smart youngsters out there. It just takes certain people to realise it."

"You discussed a private case with a bunch of 11 year olds?" John exclaimed, astounded. Sherlock frowned.

"Well, obviously I pretended it was all theoretical. I twisted it to fit the curriculum."

"What was the case?"

"It was a theft. All the children all gave exciting theories. None were correct but it did broaden my hypothesis."

"So how is it solved?"

John dragged a stool from the side and sat opposite to him, the closed laptop in between. Sherlock placed his elbows on the table and held his forehead, looking intently at John.

"A highly confidential, and stolen, memory stick containing MI6 data was found being auctioned on eBay last night with a rerouted IP address. The police couldn't let it fall into the wrong hands but the bidding was so high, it was impractical to obtain the device without losing a serious sum of money. The account had no personal information and there was no way of finding the person who was selling it. The man who was originally in charge of the memory stick was called 'Andrew West', and he was found dead on a train track at 6:25 this morning. There was very little blood on the tracks so he can't have jumped or been hit."

"So someone stole the memory stick from him, killed him then dumped him on a train track?"

"Yes. The police and I interviewed his friends and family at lunchtime in the police station, and I deduced that his sister is incredibly devoted to her partner and from what she was telling us, she can't keep a secret. Of course, Lestrade finds that insignificant, and it only rules her out as a suspect, but to me it means everything. The email I received contains the addresses of his entire family, and I am going to visit his sister tonight, and if I am right with my theory I shall let you know in the morning. But let's just assume I am right any way."

"Well, what's your theory? How do the addresses help?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Why don't you join me and see?"


	4. Deductions

Just like the night before, John entered his flat completely wired, incapable of bringing himself to continue with his usual monotonous routine.

Once more, he threw his stick on the bed and sat next to it, thinking hard about the night's events.

Unable to resist a bit of adventure, John had jumped to his feet at Sherlock's offer and split a cab with him, which took them to the address of Westwood's sister. Upon arriving, Sherlock peculiarly went down a side street which stopped at a dead end railing, revealing a train track. He nodded.

"I have a sort-of built in satnav in my brain. I know train tracks; I know street's they're close to. When Lestrade emailed me the address, I knew a train line ran directly behind Miss Sofia Westwood's home."

"But this is nowhere near where Alex's body was found, right?" John confirmed.

"Exactly. Come with me."

John had followed Sherlock round to Sofia's front door, watched him clang the knocker three times before a tall, plain man answered the door tentatively.

"Sherlock Holmes- you must be Joe. I'm here on behalf of Scotland Y-"

Joe went to slam the door shut but it caught on Sherlock's foot, swinging back open. Instead, Joe punched Sherlock square in the jaw, knocking him sideways, before he hurled himself back into the house and began to run through the rooms, John chasing after him. Joe was halfway out of a window before John grabbed his legs, pulled him back and threw him on the floor.

"Well, you've as good as confirmed that you murdered Alex Westwood by attempting to flee. I assume you have the memory stick. I'd like it, please." Sherlock coughed as he staggered into the room behind them, holding his bleeding lips.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Joe groaned.

"Oh, if you're planning to play dumb you may as well wipe the blood stains on your window pane. So, you killed him, stole the plans and then hurled him through the window, out on to a stationary train behind your house so he could be driven off to somewhere obscure?"

"How the bloody hell did you know that?" John frowned at Sherlock, who waved his hand in front of his face briskly.

"Joe, the game is up. The memory stick, please."

A moment of silence. Joe sighed, fished awkwardly inside his pocket and handed a small USB stick.

"Thank you."

The police turned up after eight minutes of awkward silence, where Joe remained pinned to the floor by John whilst Sherlock paced up and down, his hand dripping with blood from his bust lip. A greying middle-aged man entered the room first.

"This is our auctioneer?" The man frowned.

"Lestrade," Sherlock greeted, seemingly bored. "Yes. Bit obvious- I deduced it from your email. Here." He threw the USB over to Lestrade who caught it, examined it and then pocketed it delicately. "You can arrest him now."

"But how did you know?"

"Why don't you explain Joe?"

Joe seemed to contemplate this before accepting defeat.

"I went bankrupt. Needed some money." His voice was muffled but audible. "I knew my girl's brother, Alex, did something secretive- she's a bad liar and always lets slip hints about it. I thought there might be something valuable involved. I invited him for a pint, saying I was thinking of proposing. He got drunk. I asked him about work. He blabbed about this valuable memory stick. I stole it and auctioned it, but I rerouted my IP address so I wouldn't get caught. Anyway, Alex found out and came round to get it back. I didn't mean to kill him- I pushed him away and he slipped. Smacked his head on the table. What was I supposed to do? I carried his body out of the window and onto the garage, then chucked it on a train."

"Lovely," Sherlock clapped his hands together. "That was easier than I expected."

"And who's this?" Lestrade asked, pointing at John. "Are we arresting him too?"

"No, this is my colleague John Watson. He was interested so I invited him."

"Sherlock, this a confidential case, you can't just-"

"Without John, our thief would probably be on a train right now as Joe was able to knock me off my feet when we came in. John prevented Joe from escaping."

It had finally dawned on John that he had just caught a criminal from fleeing- not your usual Tuesday afternoon. Lestrade shifted.

"Right, well thanks, but this time only, Sherlock- it's bad enough getting you involved let alone another teacher."

Two hours later, John lay down his bed feeling well and truly exhilarated.

_He had helped arrest a murderer._

* * *

After realising he had forgotten his mental note to speak to the headmaster, Mycroft Holmes, John paid him a visit fifteen minutes before Wednesday began.

"Come in," The lazy yet articulate voice of the headmaster called from behind the door.

John pushed the door open and smiled at Mycroft. It was returned instantly.

"Ah, John. I thought I might be seeing you soon."

"Did you?" John replied, setting down on the chair opposing his superior and shuffling in.

"Oh yes. My dear brother informed me of your little excursion last night. Did you have fun?"

So the students _were _right- they were siblings. John shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Oh, um, yeah, yeah it was different, wouldn't say _fun_-"

"Sherlock tells me you singlehandedly dragged a murderer hanging half-way out of a window and pinned him to the floor."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"I wonder," Cut across Mycroft, pouring the pair a cup of tea. "If this drastic introduction into a more thrilling lifestyle will perhaps tamper with your teaching?"

John paused.

"I wouldn't say 'introduction', Mycroft. I am a war veteran and have experienced far more thrills than that, and I think you'll find my current teaching quite adequate."

His response was icy.

To his surprise, Mycroft smiled.

"It is of no surprise to me that you enjoyed the adventure, John. But I must warn you about my brother."

"I won't be making a habit of this," John said quickly. "There's no warning needed."

"Then why are you here?" A cup of tea was pushed towards John, and the tension in the room relaxed.

"Well, about Sherlock, actually. Does he… usually get involved in things like that?"

"Yes, all the time."

"Really? Do you think it's appropriate for a man that involved in things like that to be teaching? I don't mean to be rude; I know he's your brother-"

"I have yet to stumble upon a case where his out-of-work endeavours interfere with his teaching in the classroom. But I admit we are only two days in."

"Well last night he said he'd twisted the year 7 curriculum to fit around a case to get their opinion."

"Did he now?" Mycroft asked lazily.

"Yes, the case he solved last night in fact."

"But that's not why you're here."

"Well, no, I'm here because of how he actually treats the students. I've spoken to him but it hasn't sunk him- he's quite insulting, but-"

"Are you trying to get him fired?" Mycroft pondered after a long sip of tea. John had left his untouched.

"What? No! I'm trying to help him. I've spoken to him but he's still not liked, and I thought that as you two are related, you might be able to talk some sense into him."

"Sherlock won't listen to me," Mycroft dismissed. "I've been trying to get him to stop being such an insufferable brat ever since… well, as far as I can remember. A few upset teenagers won't change his ways."

"Shame," John said. "But about the year 7 thing-"

"John." Mycroft cut across him once more, making John feel very agitated. "You seem determined to put my own brother in my bad books. You left on a high note with him last night; I don't understand why you are telling his… _superior_…" He smirked at that word. "…all of this, but then claim you are trying to help him. Does he bother you, John? Does his lifestyle remind you too much of your troubled past? Yes, his hobbies are rather more eccentric than the average man's; are you worried that you may be driven back into the lifestyle you so desperately want to escape?"

John glared at the Mycroft and smiled coldly.

"I don't follow."

"You spent years training to become a doctor, but chose to work with the army rather than a hospital. You are obviously inclined towards a dangerous lifestyle. But, perhaps your injury made you uneasy. You thought maybe you should steer clear of danger. Like any addict trying to come clean, you chose a lifestyle completely opposite to your craving; teaching. Where could a man find any thrill or adventure or injury in teaching? And now Sherlock is here, inviting you into a lifestyle filled with murder and adventure, like the case last night; a case which you could not resist but to jump into straight away and simply could not help but tackle the criminal to the floor. You're sliding back into wanting adventure. Now you want him gone."

"Excuse me?" John blustered. "Have you and Sherlock been happily chatting about me, exchanging deductions?" John stood up and heaved his chair back. "I'm not a toy for you to both deduce! I don't, I'm not-"

"John, please calm down." Mycroft droned on, setting his empty tea cup down on the saucer. "I assure you, I haven't exchanged a word about your personal life with my brother. He simply said that you assisted him at a case last night when I asked him why he had missed his meeting with the rest of the new teachers last night. We are both fairly good at deductions, you know. I see the same as what he sees. It's not just him. I taught him."

"Yeah, well you can sod off with your smart-arse scrutiny into my life. Christ, three days into term and I feel like my personal life has just been exploited. Best be off- lessons start in four minutes."

Storming out of the office into the crowded corridors, John barged passed a rather pensive Sherlock Holmes.


	5. 221B Baker Street

Despite his outburst, although he'd never admit it, John Watson was thoroughly impressed.

Of course he was seething, though. First lesson began with an uproar to the year 9s about how no one must be paying attention if they couldn't understand mitochondria, which resulted in a stunned silence and a full apology regarding how tense John was feeling, and it wasn't their fault.

Fortunately, he had three free periods to sit and distract himself with marking until his final class, year 10 in last period. He made himself a cup of tea at the start of period 2 and began to mark his year 7 class' books.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," John said calmly, supressing any further frustration. Annoyingly, it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. John vowed to not raise his voice.

"John," Smiled Sherlock. John returned it difficultly. "Just thought I'd come by and properly thank you for last night."

"Oh, it's nothing." John said, not meeting his eyes.

"No, really. I mean, it's highly probable that I'd have recovered in time to keep the chase up and catch him anyway, but you being there made the entire process quicker. I didn't fancy clambering out of a window and jumping over train tracks."

"Glad I could help." John simply said. Sherlock didn't say anything for a while, and John noticed how the words 'thank you' hadn't actually left Sherlock's mouth. Just like the words 'I'm sorry' had never left his. Maybe they both found the two things impossible to say. It occurred to him that the two were more similar than he had originally assumed. "Is that all?" John asked, feeling slightly less angry at the man.

"No, not at all." He stepped into the room properly and shut the door behind you. "I know you're busy but I won't take a while."

"Feel free to distract me." John nodded toward the tower of books looming over him. Sherlock chuckled as John circled a spelling error on Tiffany Bloomer's passage on blood circulation.

"Well, I have another case."

John looked up.

"Already?"

"It's like I said. The police are _always _out of their depth."

"Right, well have fun with it then."

"Aren't you interested?"

"Why would I be?"

"You enjoyed it last night, I assumed."

"Yeah… but that was just a onetime thing. Things like that don't always happen. I don't know what your life was before becoming a teacher, but right now I'm happy where my life is at the moment."

"So what, marking books?"

It took a while for John to reply.

"Look, Sherlock. I know you're a bloody genius and know my entire backstory, so you'll probably know everything I have to say. I've been to war. Your brother thinks I want that lifestyle back, but I got shot so I don't want it any more. I'm happy being a teacher- I'm happy with the idea I'll have a quiet life and marry and have kids."

"Right," Sherlock nodded once, as if in full understanding. "Well, I have another proposition. Would you like to move in with me?"

This threw John completely off guard.

"Sorry?"

"Mike Stamford saw us leaving together after school and asked me if we were going to find a flat. I asked why he'd thought that, and he said you were looking to move house, as am I. So what do you say?"

"I- well," John stammered. "I barely know you!"

"We have ages to get to know each other."

"Well…"

"Do you like the violin?"

"What?"

"I tend to play the violin when on a case. It helps me think. Potential flat mates should know the worst of each other."

"I- I see."

"The flat's address is 221B Baker Street, it's very nice. We will have a good deal on it as I know the landlady. Will you visit it with me after school?"

John was so taken aback by this drastic offering that he agreed to it purely out of confusion.

"Excellent. Meet me outside my lab at the end of the day."

* * *

He didn't know what to expect, if he was honest. In fact, he didn't know why he agreed.

But he was _excited. _Maybe Sherlock was what he needed. The man was exciting to be around, always had something to. John did say he was uninterested in the cases, but if they were living together, he'd always hear about them, he'd always listen fascinatedly to Sherlock's tales…

But why did Sherlock want to associate himself with a boring biology teacher? Once more, John found he couldn't bring himself to marking. He was usually so good at keeping on schedule… maybe Mycroft was right. Perhaps Sherlock _was_ tampering with John's teaching.

But why? Yes, the man was eccentric. That had nothing to do with John. But it felt that the pair… it felt like they were drawn towards each other. John couldn't explain that. He felt a fascination with the man, and John was the only person Sherlock showed an interest towards. Why?

He didn't mention Sherlock to Stamford or the rest of the class that form time. Wanting to avoid the subject, he jubilantly discussed other things like Philip's new haircut, any more almost arrests in the class and how it was only half way through the first week of the year.

"Trust me, it flies," John said glumly.

At the sound of the bell, John took his time gathering his things before he left the lab and locked it behind him. The walk to Sherlock's felt to quick. Why was he so nervous?

Suddenly they were in a cab. Why did John agree to view the apartment? Did he want to live with a deducing arse like Sherlock?

They didn't say much on the journey towards the flat, which was a very brief one sadly. John was looking for excuses to refuse the flat and it seemed 'oh it's too far from work for me' wasn't going to be acceptable.

More unfortunately, John really liked the landlady, Mrs Hudson. She was aging but very friendly, seemed to get on well with Sherlock and chatted to both of them enthusiastically about the flat on the way up. It would be hard refusing her.

Devastatingly, John absolutely loved the flat. It was spacious, well designed, slightly cluttered but all round an absolute treat. He half wanted to drop onto the sofa in front of him but that might give off his enthusiasm. It was going to be awful to turn this away.

"Well, go have a look then," The landlady winked before shutting the door.

"Well, it's nicely laid out."

"Yes, I thought as much-"

"We'll just have to clear this rubbish out-"

"So I went ahead and moved in."

They had spoken over each other and both took a moment to comprehend the other's statements.

"Oh," Sherlock said sheepishly. "Well, I can clean up a bit…" And he instantly began to sweep things away off the table, piling things up and moving them onto different surfaces.

"You've moved in already?"

"Yes, I did last night after the case. I'll just put this away…"

"No, it's fine." John laughed. "So, I kind of have to accept the offer then?"

"More or less," Sherlock muttered, moving things around. John grabbed his arm.

"Don't worry about it, it's fine, I just meant with my stuff there won't be much space."

"So you'll take it?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and turned to fully face John. John smiled.

"I guess so. I don't mind the violin _that_ much."

The battle had been lost. John had decided to move in. It was as if all of John's resolutions to go through his future life peacefully had been laughed at, ripped into shreds and burned by Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
